


The Prettiest Curve

by trespresh



Category: Arrow (TV 2012), The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Mild Gore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-20
Updated: 2015-10-20
Packaged: 2018-04-27 08:35:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,385
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5041447
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trespresh/pseuds/trespresh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Oliver’s smile has different sides. Five sides, to be precise, but it’s not that Barry’s <i>looking</i> for them. He just notices, and really, how could he not?</p><p>(In which Barry counts Oliver's different smiles, and Oliver has a favorite smile of Barry's, too.)<br/></p>
            </blockquote>





	The Prettiest Curve

**Author's Note:**

> I took liberties, it's what I do best. Basically just ignore canonical timelines.  
>   
> This is unbeta'd, so any mistakes and/or discontinuities are my own. Beware of stupid happy vigilante fluff!  
> 

Oliver’s smile has different sides. Five sides, to be precise, but it’s not that Barry’s _looking_ for them. He just notices, and really, how could he not? Oliver smiles so rarely, and he’s _him_ , so beautiful and guarded that Barry can’t help but stare when that brooding hood comes down and that hard mask cracks enough to finally show some semblance of happiness.  
  
+  
  
Barry firmly believes that Oliver needs to smile more, but that doesn’t mean he actually _likes_ all of Oliver’s smiles.  
  
The first time Barry meets Oliver’s mother is at a Queen party. There are intricate lights strung up and waiters in cummerbunds slipping around with trays of champagne, and light orchestral music from an actual quartet in the corner of the massive banquet hall in the Queen Manor—and Barry is, as always, struck by how much money the Queen name is worth.  
  
Barry wishes he’d brought Caitlin or Cisco with him—he is so bored, and quite frankly, needs someone to bitch to. As it is, he sticks to the outskirts of the room, making tiresome small talk with Starling City’s elite while he sips champagne that he really wishes would start affecting him. It’s not that the Queens don’t know how to throw a party, it’s just that Oliver is making rounds in his perfectly tailored suit and equally tailored smile, and that fake curve of his lips is too big, too fake.  
  
Oliver’s putting on a show, Barry knows. This isn’t his Ollie; this is Starling City’s Oliver Queen, millionaire playboy smooth-talker, and Barry’s grumpy with how much this Fake Oliver bugs him.  
  
A few minutes after this realization, Oliver appears at his side and Barry perks up. “I’m glad you’re here,” Oliver says, and Barry’s only a little pleased with how normal he now sounds (okay, a lot pleased). “You would not believe how much I hate these things.”  
  
Barry does believe it, but only because he knows Oliver. To any of these party guests, Oliver must look like the ever-dashing, perfectly happy host.  
  
“You look good,” Barry tells him with a mischievous grin, relaxing into the easy conversation and tugging at the lapel of Oliver’s jacket. “Fits you almost as well as your other suit.”  
  
Oliver’s eyes dart around but his lips quirk genuinely. “Yes, you’ve made it very clear how much you like my—” he clears his throat, “ _other_ suit. But I think this one better matches the nature of this evening. Green would’ve clashed with the décor.”  
  
Barry lifts an eyebrow to match his growing smirk. “Oh, sure, the décor. But I was actually talking about your birthday suit—”  
  
Oliver grabs his elbow to cut him off, eyes over Barry’s shoulder, his hungry little grin twisting into an oversized, charming smile. “Mother, hello.”  
  
Barry turns, his cheeks just a little red, and dimples at Moira Queen.  
  
“Mother, may I introduce you to Barry Allen. Barry, Moira Queen.” Oliver gestures between them and Barry flusters a little before taking her outstretched hand.  
  
“I’m so very pleased you could make it to our benefit tonight, Mr. Allen,” Moira says with the pleasant air of a well-mannered society woman. “Oliver tells me you’re quite involved in the protection and development of impoverished areas.”  
  
Barry falters. What all did Oliver tell her? “I, uh…”  
  
Oliver jumps in. “Barry volunteers with humanitarian efforts in less-privileged neighborhoods of Central City,” he lies smoothly. (Barry actually kind of likes the way that sounds. Much fancier than “runs around and stops bad guys,” anyway, though he’d never admit it to Oliver.)  
  
He shows his annoyance with Oliver when Moira continues ambling throughout the room, chatting with other guests. He rounds on Oliver, whose smile has softened around the edges, less harsh and forced, which Barry can appreciate. “You could’ve told me you lied about me to her,” he says. “I would’ve at least been prepared to make something up. Not the way I wanted to meet your mom,” he adds huffily.  
  
Oliver just grins at him, real and like he very much wants to kiss the frown off Barry’s face. “You’re supposed to be quick on your feet.”  
  
Barry scoffs, “Yeah, _literally_ on my feet. Have you ever seen me try to lie under pressure?” He waves his hands around like that will illustrate how utterly crap he is at lying.  
  
Oliver chuckles lowly and takes Barry’s champagne flute from him, downing the last of the contents. “Well maybe I think you’re cute when you blush,” he teases, and adds, “Back to the fun,” before sauntering off into the crowd, shaking hands with men and kissing women’s cheeks with an agreeable—however void—smile on his face. Just like that, Barry is back to being childishly sulky.  
  
He knows Oliver puts on a whole new mask to represent his company, his family, his name. He just never realized how much he prefers Oliver’s other mask (and just because Barry made it for him all those months ago, well, that has nothing to do with it).  
  
(Or so he tells himself.)  
  
+  
  
They’re partners now, in more ways than one, and Barry really does enjoy kicking ass with Oliver at his side. Kevlar shielding them, reinforced masks protecting them, watching each other’s backs; Barry finds nights like this almost fun.  
  
He’s got Central’s latest metahuman—a sticky-fingered man with a love of all things shiny and a nasty habit of spitting a weaponized hydrofluoric acid—cornered down the clichéd dark alleyway. He knows Oliver’s on one of the nearby rooftops, arrow trained meticulously on King Cobra (a name of Cisco’s creation), but Barry doesn’t think he’ll actually need Arrow’s help until the metahuman aims a stream of acid at his chest, hitting dead-on.  
  
The acid burns through the suit faster than Barry can zip away to get out of it, and the pain of the acid hitting his skin drops him. He lands hard on his back, grasping at the disintegrating lightning bolt on his chest, writhing and screaming because when he looks down at his chest, he can see his skin bubbling as it melts and oh god—oh _god_ —it hurts, it hurts, it hurts, and he can vaguely hear Caitlin speaking firmly in his ear about the syringe she’d given him for this exact situation, but he can’t think, can’t follow her instructions because _his skin is literally smoking_ and—  
  
A second scream mixes with his and he looks over and focuses enough to see a long, thin arrow sticking out of Cobra’s neck, sees the metahuman fall to the asphalt and sputter around the torrents of blood rushing up through his mouth where he now lies 10 feet from Barry. Oliver drops down next to the metahuman, and Barry can’t think— _can’t think_ —except for the buzzing in his ears, and he looks up at Oliver’s face but Oliver’s not looking at him. Even under the hood, Barry can see the snarling grin twisting Arrow’s lips.  
  
It’s frightening the way Oliver’s looking down at King Cobra, like he very much wants to watch the man pitifully bleed out on the dirty ground. He leans down over the metahuman, places a finger on the outstretched end of the arrow and twists it. Cobra sputters weakly, coughing flecks of blood onto Oliver’s face—he’s that close to the dying man. He’s got this sickeningly vengeful smile on his face and Barry stares through his tears of pain, looks at that horrible leer and hates it.  
  
He knows, he _knows_ Oliver is trying to protect him, but Barry can’t—he won’t let him—doesn’t like that Oliver can become this, even for Barry—  
  
“Ollie, don’t,” he whines quietly, and Oliver’s attention is on him immediately. He kneels at Barry’s side, that awful grin replaced by a twitching, worried frown, a finger to his ear as he listens to Caitlin’s instructions before pushing the syringe of Hexafluorine they’d come prepared with, into Barry’s jugular.  
  
Barry can already feel his skin mending, and he fleetingly wishes to never, ever see that look on Oliver’s face again, before he blacks out.  
  
+  
  
Barry really wishes Oliver didn’t have the ability to make him jealous the way he does.  
  
He knows Oliver doesn’t try to, and he _knows_ Oliver and Felicity have a past, an intense relationship of trust and fondness and overcome romantic feelings on both sides. He knows he has nothing to even be jealous of, because Oliver wouldn’t ever do anything like that to him, and Felicity has been rooting for Oliver’s happiness for years, even if it’s not with herself. He knows all of this.  
  
He thinks it’s sweet, really, the way Oliver will pick Felicity up and spin her around when she pulls off a particularly incredible hack and literally saves the day from behind her computer screen. Truly, Barry does. He’s done the same to Caitlin when she’s used her scientific genius to save Barry’s life—multiple times.  
  
So maybe he’s a little petty. Oliver and Felicity—they’re their own entity, a partnership that’s been years in the making. It’s just that, well.  
  
Oliver has what Barry’s come to refer to in his head, as a Felicity Smile. It’s rare, like all of Oliver’s most genuine smiles, but that smile fills Oliver’s face and makes his eyes squish up because it’s just that big of a grin. It’s the same kind of fondness Barry’s seen Oliver direct toward Thea, brotherly yet in awe of Felicity’s spectacular nature. So really, Barry can’t blame him because she’s Felicity and she really is one of a kind.  
  
So he’s getting over that Felicity Smile, because sometimes he catches himself smiling at her with that same fascination, the same respect and feeling of pure luck that he gets to know her, be in her presence. She’s a superhero in her own right, and how can Barry hold that against her, or Oliver, for that matter?  
  
Sure, Oliver’s got a Felicity Smile. But he also has smiles reserved solely for Barry.  
  
+  
  
It’s when Barry’s got his cheek resting on Oliver’s thigh, looking up at him contentedly from where he still lays between Oliver’s twitching legs, when his head feels fuzzy and happy and his mouth still tastes like Oliver whenever he swallows or licks his lips. That’s when Oliver smiles Barry’s favorite smile to date.  
  
Oliver’s breathing is finally slowing down from the heavy gasps, and he’s got one hand still threaded loosely through Barry’s disheveled hair and the other resting on Barry’s shoulder like it doesn’t even occur to him to take his hands off the speedster. They lay there like that, Barry watching Oliver slowly float down from the orgasmic high, until Oliver opens his eyes enough to look down at Barry for just a second before he closes them again and lets out a sticky chuckle. The hand leaves Barry’s shoulder to be thrown across Oliver’s face and his laugh is so soft and out of place that it makes Barry grin too.  
  
“Ollie?” His voice comes out hoarse and cracked and that only makes Oliver snigger again. Barry nips at his thigh and tries not to laugh too as he clears his throat. “What’s so funny?”  
  
Oliver rubs his hand across his face and then he looks at Barry again, and smiles this fucked-out, lazy grin down at him. Barry can’t help but press a kiss into Oliver’s thigh as he holds that gaze, hungrily absorbs that intoxicating smile.  
  
“Nothing,” Oliver tells him, but that sluggish grin is still there when he says, “you’re just unbelievably good at that.”  
  
Barry doesn’t hide his quiet, appreciative laugh this time. “It’s the vibrating tongue thing, isn’t it?” He teases, and Oliver snorts and heaves him up to kiss him square on the lips.  
  
+  
  
Barry wakes before Oliver one Sunday morning. They’re in Barry’s bed, naked and satisfied from the night before. Barry stretches with as little movement as possible, working out kinks in his shoulders while simultaneously keeping an eye on Oliver’s peacefully sleeping face against the pillow to the side of him.  
  
The city’s been fairly quiet the past few days, so they’ve got nothing to do, nowhere to be all morning. Barry fully intends to stay here as long as possible, comfortable and warmed by the heat coming from Oliver next to him. Barry snuggles down, squishes himself underneath Oliver’s arm while trying not to disturb the sleeping man, but Oliver breathes in heavily and cracks an eye open. He lifts his arm a fraction and Barry nestles in easily, pressing a kiss to the underside of Oliver’s jaw in a way that has Oliver smiling so gently at him, a smile so private and for Barry alone that Barry has to press himself tighter to the pliant body and throw an arm tiredly over Oliver’s waist.  
  
They say nothing, the relaxed silence of the still morning resting heavily over them like a warm blanket. Barry feels Oliver’s lips press against his forehead just before he drops back into dreamless sleep.  
  
+  
  
Oliver’s favorite smile of Barry’s is a frequent one.  
  
Barry smiles a lot, dimples cutting into his cheeks every time, but Barry’s best, most beautiful smile always follows a _whoosh_ of air and a crackle of electricity through the hair on Oliver’s arms.  
  
He’ll have run over 600 miles in nearly 45 minutes—a slow day for the Flash—to barrel into Oliver’s bedroom, his hoodie disheveled and his hair windblown and sticking up in a ridiculous way that most certainly is _not_ adorable, his cheeks flushed and still a little cold from the brisk autumn air. And he’s got this smile—a totally blissed, exhilarated grin that shows all of his teeth like he’s never loved anything in his life as much as he loves running. But then that smile somehow grows when he looks at Oliver.  
  
That smile makes Oliver chuckle, he just can’t help it, Barry looks so stupidly, contagiously happy. Barry basks in the welcoming quirk of Oliver’s lips, eagerly eyeing his face like Oliver’s smile is the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. It’s heady sometimes, the way Barry looks at him, and a little scary if Oliver’s quite honest.  
  
(Mostly because Oliver’s pretty sure that Barry doesn’t ever notice Oliver looking at him the exact same way.)  
  



End file.
